


twenty lashes

by days4daisy



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Community: seasonofkink, Impact Play, M/M, Punishment, Whipping, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 15:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Mordo’s shoulder aches from the repeated strikes. He sweats, fully robed before Strange’s canvas of bared skin. Were Mordo more invested in status, he would feel powerful in this moment. But this is not an exercise in ego. Mordo wants Strange to learn, nothing more.





	twenty lashes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Season of Kink bingo square: Impact Play
> 
> Not what I was expecting to write for this square, but I guess my brain really wanted some Strordo *_*

The room fills with the sound of labored breaths. A clock with elaborate antique hands ticks from the bookcase against the far wall. Mordo waits.

Strange’s back is a tether of blood and broken skin. Flame-gold warded bands hold his arms above his head. A piece of hair sticks to Strange’s brow. His eyes are glassy, his face fever warm. Strange’s naked legs clench against the pain.

“Strange.” Strange hoists his head from between bunched shoulders. His broken back arches, painfully tense. More blood trickles from open sores.

“I, ah-” Strange falters; how rare for a man of his ego. Strange looks lost for the first time since Mordo found him wandering the streets. He was a desperate man then, but he did not know yet what he was truly desperate for. Now, he is beginning to understand 

“Strange.” Mordo is less gentle this time.

“Seventeen,” Strange croaks. His body shakes, and his cock stands erect; a furious red, leaking and neglected.

“No,” Mordo says. He brings the whip down.

Strange gasps like a drowning man. “...Sixteen?” he tries.

"That’s wrong,” Mordo says softly. "Deep down, you know it’s wrong.” A tight sound answers.

With a sigh, Mordo lays a hand between Strange’s blistered shoulders. “You know what happens when you're wrong,” he says.

Strange laughs, edged with bitterness. “You start again,” he says. 

“ _We_ start again.” Mordo takes hold of Strange’s cock. He is heavy; thick and warm. Strange groans. “Twenty lashes,” Mordo says. “You were quite close.”

“Yeah,” Strange mutters, “I can tell you’re heartbroken _-gck_!” Strange’s arrogance slips under Mordo’s appropriately timed squeeze.

Calmly, Mordo strokes, slicking Strange with his own precum. “We will continue until the lesson is learned.” Mordo sees Strange’s disappointment as clearly as he feels Strange’s cock twitch in his hand. He lets go.

“This is,” Strange grits, “the _worst_ late book fee ever.”

Mordo smiles. An overdue library book. Not punishment for infiltrating a restricted area without permission. Or violating curfew by astral projection, an art Strange is not even close to mastering. No, Strange’s inflated head does not see reason yet. But he will.

Mordo brings the whip down. The room fills with the sound of leather hitting flesh. Strange moans, and a new welt opens on his back. His skin looks like a terrible game of tic-tac-toe.

Anger wars with more violent wants on Strange’s face. “One,” he hisses, glaring over his shoulder.

As he says the word, the next lash cracks across his back. Strange wheezes in surprise. The quake in his hands is somewhat worrisome, but Strange’s rapt expression eases Mordo's concern. Beads of blood weep down Strange’s back. “Two.” Strange’s voice is barely audible.

Again, Mordo strikes him. Again, again. “Three… F-Four… Oh...god, _five_.” Sweat shines on Strange’s face.

Mordo’s shoulder aches from the repeated strikes. He too sweats, fully robed before Strange’s canvas of bared skin. Were Mordo more invested in status, he would feel powerful in this moment. But this is not an exercise in ego. Mordo wants Strange to learn, nothing more.

“Strange.” Mordo’s voice drowns under the sound of Strange’s breaths. From the far wall, the clock ticks.

“I...need a break,” Strange gasps. “I need-”

“Strange,” Mordo repeats.

A silent moment passes. “Six,” Strange rasps at last.

Another. Strange’s body spasms. “Seven.”

Another. Strange’s waist bucks into empty space. “Eh- Eight.”

Another. Wetness gathers at the corners of Strange’s eyes. “Karl,” he hisses, “please-”

“Strange.”

Strange forces glassy eyes open. His mouth is swollen and slick from anxious licking. “Nine,” he slurs.

Another. A violent shudder rocks Strange’s body. His scarred hands clench to half-open fists, and his bare feet scrape the floor.

“Strange,” Mordo says. Strange chokes on his breaths, coughing and gasping weakly. 

Whip coiled over an arm, Mordo steps around. Strange’s eyes are like early frost on a winter lake, his mouth slack, wet and stuttering. With a sigh, Mordo winds gentle fingers around Strange’s cock. Strange jolts, and a hiss strangles from his throat. “Have you had enough?” Mordo asks.

“I-” Strange does not sound like himself; panicked, desperate. “I need a break, a few, a few minutes.” His teeth clench. “Just a - a break, I'm-”

“Strange.” Again, Mordo squeezes him. Strange moans without the slightest concern for pride or appearance. His body reacts with equal abandon, bowing towards Mordo’s touch. This instinct, pleasant as it is, does not hold Mordo’s attention. Strange’s hands do, trembling above his head. “There is no punishment for the truth here,” Mordo tells him. Even now, Mordo expects a wry word from his pupil. There are few times when Doctor Stephen Strange is bereft of his biting wit.

Strange considers Mordo with bleary, red-rimmed eyes. “My hands,” he whispers finally. It sounds like defeat.

Mordo flicks the air with two joined fingers. Strange’s wrist bonds pop free. Without the restraints, Strange crumbles to his knees. Groaning, he tucks his hands to his chest. His curled back looks like one congealed, bloody knot.

Mordo lays a hand on Strange’s shoulder. The whip marks immediately begin to dry. Strange sucks in a breath. “You can heal?”

“Pain of the mind can ail as severely as pain of the body. More so at times. Isn’t that true?”

Strange’s skill is too novice to grasp Mordo's full meaning, but his eyes widen when the whip disappears. It is as if the instrument, and its damage, never existed at all. Strange is beginning to understand.

A dull blush is all that remains of the wounds on Strange’s back. “Better?” Mordo asks.

Strange still cradles his hands close. “I’ll live,” he mutters, turning away.

Mordo allows himself a smile. “And what of your other ailments?”

“My other…” Strange looks up, startled. His surprise turns wary. “I can handle myself, thanks.”

“With your hands?”

“Look, you made your point, alright? Take it easy with the projection, no more unauthorized library visits. You don’t have to rub it in.”

Mordo waits for Strange to finish, unflinching, patient. “And if I’m offering for my own reasons?” he asks.

Strange’s suspicion softens to less guarded confusion. “Yeah.” he mumbles slowly, “nothing weird about that.”

Mordo shrugs. “If that is a no, I’ll honor your choice.” He passes Strange on his way to the door.

“Wait...” Strange's voice is quiet, but it does not waver.

Without hesitation, Mordo turns back around.

*The End*


End file.
